il n'est pas finis et tu me manque toujours

backdated two days ago

I started crying again. Wait. Did I ever stop?
It's become a nightly ritual when I am alone. A few days ago I just curled myself up on the kitchen floor and let the tears consume me. I thought, "What if my roommate came home now? What if she had someone with her? Am I insane?" I don't know. I hate thinking about how uncomfortable she would have been. But she just as likely would have come to my side and comforted me.
I miss Pants. I do. I deleted his number from my phone, and made him less visible to my online eye.
This doesn't end.

if only

Q: How do you survive suicide?

It's easy.

A: You just don't die.

laminating lamentation -- let's make it last forever

Today I sat in my social work class and listened to the people around me discuss addiction.
Today I sat in my social work class and fought back tears.
Today I missed the people in my life that have been addicts. That have been directly affected by addiction. I have been affected. Effected. There is an effect. It effects a change.
Today I hated ex-otter.
Today I missed Pants.
Yeah. Like that's anything new.

One week from today and it will be a year since I let ex-otter break me. A year since a big part of me died. If I could meet the me from one year ago, what would I think of myself? If we could meet, how would we react to each other?

and these are the things that break me.
and these are the things that hurt.
last night I closed my bedroom door and sobbed to no one.
every night lately I've been crying over nothing.
shut them out.
shut me in.
more and more I begin to understand why people leave me.
and I hate myself.
and I hate other people.
and I hate these situations.
I hate and hate and hate and then I cry because of all the people that aren't around anymore. all the people that left me and the people that I left.

Pants.
What the fuck.
I just wanted to know you, and have you know me.

How did things get so twisted?

paraphrasal jigsaw perusement

I said, "you win."
"I'm deleting your number and I won't contact you anymore."

Is this a power thing? Ultimately, all relationships are about power. But is this a more insidious one? Does it creep? Has it infiltrated my brain and smoothed itself inside my skull in such a way that it has infused everything with its doubt?
Pants. I don't know how to do this. You give me mixed signals and it can't be blamed on drug use or alcohol. You say you can't be around me, then you say I will hear from you, then you tell me not to abandon you, then you say you believe me when I say I want to hurt you. I am capable of it. You tell parts of stories but I'm always left feeling as though I'm missing something vital. I have all these pieces of you but I can't put them together because I don't know the picture it's supposed to make. I'm not even sure where to start.

songs: ohia -- captain badass

departure and worry
and worry and worry
still shake me
resistance failed
resistance failed.
and friendship failed
and friendship failed.
as lovers we did not fail
as lovers we did not fail.
brown eyes,
your pulse is getting hotter
brown eyes,
your pulse is getting quicker
quote captain badass
"I am setting your heart on fire
so when you leave me I will burn on in your soul"
you won't have to think twice
if it's love you will know.
we get no second chance in this life
we get no second chance in this life
so a hot pulse is alright
it's alright
so a quick pulse is alright
it's alright
so a hot kiss is alright
it's alright
so a long kiss is alright
it's alright
so a long night is alright
it's alright
and all night is alright
it's alright
there ain't no contest
against the final day
we'll rise above us
either way
we're either greeted by life or its reverse
then each day greeted by fortune or its reverse
will you stand up for your one chance?
will you stand up for love?
we get no second chance in this life
we get no second chance in this life
you won't have to think twice
if it's love you will know

(I need to stop listening to songs: ohia. All I do is think about Pants and wallow in the beauty of the song mingled with my sadness at their truth)

stop playing, start flying

He calls me baby like it means something.
at least, he used to.
would he still hold my head against his chest and rest his chin atop my hair? would he still look at me like I meant something to him? if the situation presented itself, would he cry again? He broke down, but now his pieces are all hidden under the rug. he swept them under there when I wasn't looking. now I just hear "crunch crunch crunch" while he ignores the tell-tale sounds.
I don't walk over him. I walk around him, gradually closing the circle. hoping he doesn't notice me inch closer and closer. he does. he always does. and then I'm on the edge again, wondering how anyone can ever get inside.
Is this important because I can't have it?
Doesn't he know that the easiest way to get rid of me is to give in and just let me get bored?
The more he struggles, the stronger I want him.
I am the web and he is the fly. He writhes and I encase him further. The question is, who will win? Will he break free or will I completely restrain him? What if I'm wrong? What if I am the fly and he is a spider-less web? I'd be caught with no purpose, just left to rot and wither.
Neither of these appeals much to me.
What was that about power?

creepy or caring?

I am getting better at being friends with boys without fucking them.
Beard and I have been hanging out. He was my sanctuary last night from a rowdy house. I slept on his couch with two cats and when I woke in the morning he gave me tea. I still want him. But I don't show it anymore. Not consciously, at least.
I slept on his couch wearing a t-shirt, boxer briefs, and thigh-high socks held up by a garter belt. I think he wants me too but can't let himself have me. I think he's hung up on his ex. I think this is ok because now we get to just hang out and see what happens. No expectations. Just friends.
I have to remember not to lean on him too much. I have to remember my other friends, too. I get caught up so easily in just one person. I need to remember to see others. I need to realize my friends are wide-spread and each contributes to my point of view. I need to keep myself well-rounded. I need diversity.

Last night I called my dad. We talked for an hour. I'm not sure if we've ever talked that long about anything real. By real I mean "relevant" and "interesting" and "insightful." For once I think it's ok that I tend to date people similar to my dad, because I finally got to see who my dad is. I grew up with him in throes of PTSD. He was diagnosed 10 years ago. A severe case, from Viet Nam. Throughout my childhood, my mom warned my siblings and I against ever waking him or startling him. I don't remember him freaking out much, but he probably did. I don't remember ever tapping him on the shoulder. Is this why I tend to let my voice alert people first? Is it from my dad and from growing up with horses? I don't know. Talk first, approach, keep a distance, reach out, connect. But once I know someone, I tackle first and talk later. Where did that come from?
My dad remembers things differently. His vision is a little clearer now, but you can't undo thoughts from twenty years ago. He says it's good I'm self-aware, that it's powerful. It is something he's recently gained. His wife doesn't let him put up a shell. She cracks through it. I wonder if I could do that with Pants? The problem is that first he has to let me get close enough.
I saw him yesterday, by chance. He came over and we talked in the stairway. There is a wall all around him. A few days ago I texted him to say, "you are a brick wall built around a soap bubble." He is so fragile within. I can feel it. He's so fragile that he's terrified if anyone breaks through then he will be lost. He'll just pop. He doesn't see it that way, but I can feel it. His eyes are hard.
I miss having sex with him because that was the only time he would let down his guard.
I am unsure of what I'm doing. Mostly I feel fine. I feel better than I did before. I'm not sure if this is unhealthy. If I'm not certain, does that ensure that it is?

who fixes the tinker?

Could I run out of sadness for a while?
Can I be complete and single?
These are not new things for me; I remember them from years ago. Nine years ago, before I met ex-husband. Nine years ago, when I felt strong in my solitude. Nine years ago. Am I even remembering correctly?
Yesterday was a landmark day for me. It was the ten year anniversary of my suicide attempt. Most years I read old journal entries to see where I was each year. This year I didn't do that. This year I focused more on it being my mom's birthday than I did on what else it signifies. Another year of life. I got some support from friends. That's all I can ask for, right? It is enough. I barely cried.
This is what I've been working towards. I survived it on my own, physically. I didn't have anyone to call and cry to. I didn't have anyone to lean on. There was only me, and some text, and people saying how their life has been enriched by my living.
I get so tired of making myself feel sad. I feel a pressure on the back of my skull. The side of my brain. There are these feelings that want me to hurt. I don't want to hurt anymore. I don't want to be dark and sad and angry. I want to be content. Can I be content?
Most of all, I want to not want.
Just let me be. Can I survive?
Let me be, and find out on my own.

when are I

I keep feeling like I'm looking for someone to miss. I'm looking for someone to feel sad about. I'm looking for a reason to cry.
Why?
When I heard from ex-otter, it felt like the bond between us hardened and finally snapped. The truth was in the air, the oxygen caused a reaction, the barb rusted and broke. I'm still pulling strands from the hole, but the final status is this: he is gone.
Yes, I ache and am empty, but it's a cleaner wound now. I think it can heal. The dirt and debris, shrapnel and shards have all been cleansed from the blood. My body can perform its function. My skin can knit; my muscles regrow.
This almost a year after the fact.
That bullshit people say about how it takes half the time the relationship lasted for you to get over someone is just that: bullshit. We were together for 18 months. It's taken me 11 to feel like I might have my footing. I'm leaving room for doubt. After all, I haven't seen him since February. I have no idea what face-to-face will be. I figure it will knock me back a few steps, but until then I am closer to alright.
I don't want to miss someone just because I'm used to it. I don't want to make myself blow things up bigger than they are. The situation is already stretched thin enough.
I don't want to pile emotion on Pants just because I'm used to feeling it for someone. How much of what I feel is genuine, and how much is habit? I don't know. I thought I'd be scared to find out, but I'm not. Not as much as I used to be, at least.
How much of me is me and how much is who I used to be?
How much of him is him and how much is what I remember?
How much of him is him and how much is what I want him to be?

these are moments when my head is full of smoke

I thought, "I'm used to not being beautiful," but I know it's a fucking lie.
I am beautiful. I am myself. And I am confused by how many people do not see the former nor respect the latter.
For some reason, I found myself thinking of ex-otter. Maybe because he was with me when I first started my job at the library. My heart ached a little. He would bring me lunch sometimes. I got him a library card. It expired in July.

Last night Pants and I had a text conversation that lasted longer than one back-and-forth. He answered me nearly immediately. This doesn't happen often with him. Today I wrote to him at 11am and still haven't heard back. Not surprising, but as always disappointing. I don't have anything to say, anyway. Nothing he really needs to know. I just like to talk to him.
I'd call him if he'd want to talk. But if I start down that road, I'll end up at a dead end again; like last time. I tread a thin line here. He is always on the verge of wanting me, but can't seem to spill over into it when we're not physically together. I try hard to be patient. I do. I try so hard. More now than ever before, I think.
I try to be patient while I wait to hear from Pants. I try not to wait for him; to not think about it; but I can't help it. He is in my head. I can feel him and smell him and taste him. I want him.
It feels nice to want. It feels nice to not get the immediate gratification. I must remember this. I would like more time with him, but it isn't my call. Our schedules are too different; he is too private.

I want to be patient.
I want to just be.

moments of clari/ty/fication

I have been hanging out with Beard again. This time we are platonic. As we watched a movie last night, I longed to rest my head on his shoulder but I felt it would send the wrong message. I like him, but not how I like Pants. I still think he is ideal for me, but since I got that letter from ex-otter, I just don't feel the need to be with anyone.
That's how I got to see Pants again.
That's how I stopped flirting.
I don't want to be with anyone. I want to be alone. I like to see Pants. I like the intimacy we share in person. I love him, I do, but it's a slow burn. It simmers. I am not an inferno like before; I am tempered and patient. I think. I could be.
I like Beard and I want him to be my friend. I am feeling less and less like I need acknowledgment through sex. I am feeling less and less like I need to be attractive to feel good about myself. I hope this lasts. I'm sure I will have some back-sliding. But right now I am relatively content.
I told my therapist that I feel lost when I don't have someone to like. I don't know where to focus my energy. I have defined myself through my relationships. I have never wanted to do that, and yet I have. The thing about being close to Pants is that his main hobbies involve pushing himself very hard when riding his bicycle, and reading. These are two things I'd like to do anyway. And I find myself looking to him for inspiration. I think this is good, as long as I can keep myself from getting too caught up. As long as I am aware. Can I do that? Can I keep myself sane, and safe, and embrace new-found patience?

This isn't a miracle. This isn't a cure. It's a realization. I want peace. I am tired of turmoil. I want to be more than who I am right now. I want to be able to look back and be proud of myself.

I laid down in the shower to soften my skin. I kept my mouth above water. I peeled the hardness from my fingers. I didn't want to die. I was barely tempted.

first contact

Fuck you.
ex-otter wrote to me, asking for his brother's hat back and letting me know that he found a pair of my socks and one of my shirts. Fuck you. And then said he guessed I didn't want to hear from him because I hadn't written.
I am so angry.

Fuck you, asshole. Don't blame the lack of communication on me. YOU left ME. YOU broke off communication. YOU started dating someone almost immediately. YOU didn't read or reply to any of the emails I sent before. Why would I even bother writing? I don't want to wonder if you'll write back. I don't want to wonder if you'll fucking read what I have said.
I can't believe you would write after 11 months and just now say that you've found a pair of my socks and my shirt. I hate you. My heart sunk inside itself when I saw that you had written me. I was hoping it would be something important: something about dru; an apology for all the shit I have gone through over the past year; not this petty shit. I have survived just fine the past year without the fucking socks and shirt. I hate you for treating me like I am so inconsequential. Like all that I am to you now is some stuff you forgot to give back to me a year ago.
I hate you not contacting me early. I hate you for missing the suicidal grief I have been in for the past year. I hate you for not taking responsibility for your actions. For saying I didn't contact you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you.

This hurts so much. More than I thought it would. I was looking through my bookshelf's cabinet earlier today and found his number written on a scrap of paper. I ripped it up and threw it away.
Fuck him for treating me like I didn't matter.
Fuck him for continuing to do so.

I just cried so hard that my throat is sore.
I am glad there is no one here to hold me. I am glad I am alone. This may be the first time I've ever felt this way. At least since he left me.

Maybe that's what you call progress.

I hate him.

these are common subjects for me these days

Confusion on confusion. He wants me but will not have me. I ask for directness and he says, "I like you and I'm trying to be careful, alright?" Why didn't he just say that in the first place?
Last night I found my meditation in the bottom of my claw-foot bathtub. During the day, when I am sad, I think about the coming shower and the peace I find with the rising water. I finally understand trance music. I almost understand addiction.
How can I give this up? Can I make it healthy, instead of the tiny thing I keep around to justify how dead I feel? When I walk alone at night, I keep my fear at bay by thinking, "I'm suicidal. What do I have to lose?" Nothing. Kill me. You're just speeding the inevitable. You're just doing me a favor. You will make my death tragic in an entirely different way. You make my death personally acceptable.

Last night I entered the school of Social Work building. I had on paint and plaster-dust covered jeans, my ratty patched hoodie, my bike helmet with the decrepit hood underneath, and my oh-so-adorable shoes. As I walked the halls with my bicycle, trying to find the office I needed to drop off my field study application, I passed a woman sitting in the comfy cul-de-sac. The office I needed had no external mail box, so I started walking back towards the staff boxes, passing the woman again. This time she said, rather harshly, "Are you looking for someone?"
I don't need to tell any more of this story. Social work is supposed to be, yes, about assisting people. Part of assisting people is reserving your own judgment. At least pretend that you don't find them repulsive. At least pretend that you care what they are saying.
There I was, fellow social work student, being accosted because I looked different. SURPRISE. I wonder how she'll do with other minorities. I bet she works with geriatrics. I hope she doesn't want to work with teens.
So here I am, judging this person that judged me. Because it hurts. It hurts that people are always so surprised when they hear what my major is. I used to delight in shocking people but that hasn't been my goal in years. These are the times when I hate myself. These are the times that I hate everyone else.
Of course she was nicer, though not much, when she heard I was a student. Common ground, I suppose.

But all I wanted to do was get home and lay down in the shower.
I didn't necessarily want to die last night. I just didn't want to feel.
Isn't that the goal of meditation?

this doesn't mean to you what it means to me

today, it was apathy that saved me
apathy and hunger
when you're under water, everything feels better
dullness in my ears
small sounds become bigger
the world is a steady drum
one that I can handle.
when half my face is under water, I am soothed
open my eyes and see a world distorted
half under
half over
same place
different vision.
and I think,
"once suicide was blood,
then it was pills
when did it become water?"
I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.
today it was apathy that saved me
I couldn't feel enough to keep my head down.
today it was hunger that saved me
just the normal kind.
nothing special.

this wasn't a poem so much as it was
a lot of incomplete sentences.
I think I can relate.

Why does having my meds switched make me feel like a failure?
Hello Prozac.

did you get it?

Aching back; not as sore as the hole in my chest. Aching back and I cling to it just to have something else to focus on. Something other than him; something I know will go away without me even noticing.
But he didn't leave quietly or with drama. I didn't push him away without a word. We gave each other chances; we gave each other choices but in the end there was no meeting place. It was power versus power and I couldn't remain impotent any longer. He is attracted to strong women but didn't want me to show my strength.

I miss that voice, and the songs he'd sing. I miss the warmth of his covers and the feel of his arms. I miss the comfort in his bed, his kisses, his eyes. I miss watching him, and fighting him, and his intensity. His intensity.
The sex before he loved me was so different from how it ended up.

Oh, can I touch you again? What would it be like to see you again? Would you go back to cold and closed? Or would you bloom under my fingers; would you rest your head on my shoulder? Would you place your lips in the hollow between my breasts and make me whole again, just for a little bit?
How did you understand so much without telling me? How did you notice?

Ache in my back matches my chest; they throb together. I want him. It's a different kind of pain; different loss. Can I have him back someday? Can someone bring him to me?
I mailed him a letter. I drew patterns on a sticker. I wrote in different colors.
I regret nothing.

just "broke up" with pants, who I really wasn't dating anyway.
just cried.
at least now I don't have to wonder if I'll hear from him. Really, I just want to hear from him.

m,my feet aren't my own anymore

I have started to test myself.
How far can I go without committing suicide?
I take showers, long showers. I curl up in the bottom of the bathtub and let the water pool around me. My body creates a barrier. The water slowly rises, filling one ear, distorting the sound of water hitting water; porcelain tapping out rhythm. I get lost in the drumming. It sounds like music, like something someone in Providence would play. Noise. Beauty.
I open my eyes and see a world divided. One arm under water, one arm above. One eye under water, one eye above. Half blurry, half clear. Water rises.

How far can I go?

Water begins to pour into one nostril. I wait as long as I can. I deal with the discomfort, that swimming-pool memory of diving underwater with nothing to hold my nose closed. I think, "maybe tonight is the night I can relax enough to die." I think, "I bet if I got high enough, I could do this and not care about drowning. I would like it. It would just be another sensation to notice."
The water is comforting. The stillness of my body reminds me of ten years ago. It feels like I am giving myself up to the inevitable. I can finally stop fighting. I won't have to worry about anything else. I can be in gentle darkness, soothing, caressing, blind and weightless. It would be home.

Instead, I sit up. I let the water drain. I get on my knees and touch my forehead to the bathtub. I let the death wash off of me. I get up. I turn off. I get out.

And I wonder who knows about my disease? Who knows I'm suicidal? I've only told my therapist. I said I could keep myself safe. It gets harder and harder each time, but I won't stop doing it. I love the sense of peace I get when the water starts to take me. I love the warmth. I love the sound. I love the feeling.

Who reads this and says nothing? If the roles were reversed, what would I say? This is too big for any one person. This is just me, and mine, and what can I do to deal with it?
I keep going. I keep living. I struggle to stay on top of things. Sometimes I succeed. What else can I do? I'm in therapy. I take medication. What more can I do but commit myself to a mental institution? I still remember how that was ten years ago. I don't want to go back yet.
I think I'll end up there eventually, but I can't go back yet.
I'd have to get so much worse before it would be worth it.

what do you do with a sober heart at 3 in the afternoon?

"This could be good for you." Like Steel was good for me? No, I'm being serious. Steel was good for me. He knocked out my need for control. Well, my overwhelming need for control; I still want to know what's going on. Pants is very different. He has all the power. He reminds me a little of California. He reminds me of ten years ago.
He has opened up to me. He feels precious to me. I want to be something special to him. I want to be different. He is attracted to me. All of me. Not just my physical appearance. Not like most of the men that won't even glance my way. I am too strong for them? Or do I just appear to be strong?
That has been my worry lately. Pants said, "I like strong, independent women." What if I am neither of those things? Honestly, I want someone that I can see all the time. This is why he could be good for me; I can't get what I want and what I am used to having. I have to be patient. I have to wait.

Pants, like Wizard, distinguishes "love" from "in love." I have a wordless understanding of this. On a base level, I get it. But my brain can't quite comprehend. I have loved so many people. Was I even in love with any of them? I think ex-otter came the closest, and I was too damaged to make it positive. I was too damaged to even realize it until he was gone.
Is that the kind of love you can fall out of? You can fall in it, out of it, etc. Maybe mine is more lasting? "In love" sounds so fickle. I love. I do not "in love." I verb. I am active. Being in love sounds like something that happens to you. Loving is something you do. Is being in love something that can burn you up? Is it that fiery thing that consumes, leaving nothing but ashes once it's over? Is it what starts wars; carries feuds; justifies vengeance; destroys lives? It sounds terrifying to me. I don't know how people even get to that point.
I have loved. I have loved to the point of self-destruction. I've gotten high, and drunk, and cut, and slept, and kept myself awake all night. I've starved, eaten, exercised, and laid around all day. I've cried. I've screamed. I've curled into a ball and sobbed uncontrollably. I've climbed trees and buried my face in the grass. I have loved, and if that is love, then what is being in love?
And why do I want it so badly?

Love seems like something you can choose to do.
Being in love is something that happens. Not passive, just unable to be forced or found by searching.
"Love is what you think it is." The problem is that I'm not sure what I think it is anymore.
Gonna be a long time before I get the chance to know it.